


and you know that it will

by fueledbysquee



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fueledbysquee/pseuds/fueledbysquee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick's a collector of the sorts of things that made a difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you know that it will

**Author's Note:**

> “And that’s my worst thing, waking up alone, because someone’s snuck out… My last memory is that they were there. That’s my worst fear. Waking up and not knowing where someone’s gone.”  
> — Nick Grimshaw
> 
> As I said at the time, I had to get this out of my head so I can get on with my life. But seriously. It's been a week. How are we not drowning in stories about this? Go! Write!

It's not until they're getting ready to properly move in together that Nick realises quite how much rubbish he's got stashed in the corners of his apartment.

Having Harry around has been a great thing for the kitchen cupboards, but done nothing for the space under the stereo, the end table, the baskets around the coat rack.  The extra resident has done in the bathroom and his closets almost entirely.  Nick's got some covered shelves in the guest room that had spent a solid six months as the spot he "cleaned" to when he had company he cared about impressing, and it'd probably be best if he just binned the lot of it, but there's always the chance there's one important piece of paper in the middle of the mess.  What piece of paper it might be, he can't imagine, but that's the point then, isn't it?

It's not like the state of Nick's flat should be a surprise to Harry at this point, and there's a bloody lot of packing and sorting to do if they're ever going to be allowed to see daylight or their friends again.  So Nick takes the potential horror in the guest room, and he assigns their bedroom to Harry and his neat pile of empty boxes.

He's doing quite well, he thinks when he's cleared the first shelf.  Much more in the stack to chuck than the one to file, and he hasn't given himself a paper cut or cramped up in his legs.  He's considering a well-earned break for a drink and a chat when Nick's humming is suddenly notably louder in his own ears. The radio's cut out, and then there's a bit of a crash that probably indicates that Puppy's got bored with them again and is taking it out on the electronics. 

Even though Nick was just thinking of getting up for a stretch, it seems like a much better idea to send Harry after it.  He's young, besides.  Harry should definitely have to be the one to stand up and possibly chase Puppy about, even if it's Nick's poor dog training that's caused the problem in the first place.

"Harry? Can you go check on the mess?"

There's no answer, and Nick can hear something being dragged along the floor in the hallway.  The problem may just come to him if he waits it out, but then it may also bang off the walls and chip the paint on top of scarring the floor.

"Yeah," Harry calls back a few moments later.  And then, "Sorry, what?" so Nick sighs and levers himself up to investigate where Harry's brain has gone.

Harry's got his hair shoved under a beanie to avoid another accident with the packing tape, and from the doorway it's a view Nick hasn't seen in years, like Young Harold has shown up again to sit on the floor and paw through CDs or read the newspapers that Nick had been trying to keep up with when he'd decided to be an adult.

He's got three boxes opened up behind him on the floor and one tipped sideways on top of the bed, all nearly empty, and it occurs to Nick that maybe they should have talked about a packing _system_ before he set Harry loose.

"Alr-" he starts, but it sticks in his throat as he realizes what Harry's got spread out on the floor in front of him.  He hasn't seen the contents in months at least, whenever Harry had gotten back from his last tour, and while he hadn't precisely forgotten its existence, Nick had definitely considered whether he still had anything embarrassing hidden in his bedroom and come up with "no."  Incorrectly.

* * *

Bit of tissue, blue ink. _no coffee, went to store, text if you want something_

* * *

Sheet of A4, three days travel itinerary on reverse _thought about waking you but you still seemed feverish.  Left a message for Finchy. Pills and water when you wake up.  I'll call when we land.  .xx_

* * *

Wrapping paper of the birthday sort, rumpled _Puppy looked sad, taking to park.  join us if your head can handle sunshine xx_

* * *

Tesco receipt, bit of tape folded over at the top from where it'd been stuck to Nick's lamp. _early car, sorry I forgot. love_

* * *

Quarter sheet of newsprint, red marker overwriting the neat rows of what had been other peoples' biggest news that day.  _Love you, call me after your show. Leave a message. x_

* * *

Nick can feel his cheeks heating before Harry even turns around.  He imagines this is what it might have felt like to have someone read his journal, if he'd ever been able to focus long enough to keep a journal.  All he's ever done is gather up bits and pieces like this, but they're _his_ bits and pieces all the same, and it's different to see them spread out beneath someone else's hands.  Even Harry's hands.  Right, maybe especially Harry's hands.

Nick doesn't come any closer - to be honest, there's not much of a path left across the floor, nor any place to sit if he did except right across from Harry with the box and the bits of Nick's sad life between them.

Harry turns to look at Nick over his shoulder, and then he holds up the top lid of a box of chocolates.  Nick doesn't actually remember what that one says, but he remembers it's in pencil, and he can't read it from three feet away.  Mostly he remembers nearly poking himself in the eye on the corner when he'd rolled over onto it one morning.

There's a bit of a commotion rattling Nick's brain, wondering what comment Harry's going to make first.  _Hoarding them up for sale on the internet?_ maybe.  That's what Harry'd said about the first few shirts that he'd left behind. Always one for the classics, his Harry.

Nick pins his lips together between his teeth, draws a deep breath in his nose, waits. There’s no need to mention how often he’d gone through that box when Harry had last gone away.  If he’s lucky, there’s no need to say anything at all.  Harry can talk enough for both of them this once, and Nick’ll just agree with whatever seems least pathetic. Maybe it hadn’t been obvious to Harry that they’d already been sorted through, that his favourites had been at top of the box and a little worse the wear for it.

But all Harry does is turn until he can lean his back against the bed, and hold his hand out to Nick.  “C’mere, you,” he says, exactly as fond as usual, and Nick goes, just like always, picking his way around the debris and folding up on the floor next to Harry. He holds Nick’s hand in his warm, dry grip, and doesn’t protest when Nick kisses his temple like his nan, when he leans his head on Harry’s shoulder; Nick doesn’t yell when Puppy comes trundling into the room and scatters the papers in her wake.


End file.
